


Web of Starlight

by Babblish



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Cults, Drow, Elves, Gen, I am not taking the whole worldbuilding or canon thing very seriously, M/M, The Underdark, contains violence and stuff, drabble for my character's backstory, my take on the whole underdark and drow thing, probably problematic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babblish/pseuds/Babblish
Summary: Web is a young drow coming into his own, but where he belongs may not be where he thinks.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Deception of Shadows

It started with drums. Quietly at first, softly, like the hand of a giant gently tapping as its mind wandered the vast expanse of its mind. It built up, pace quickening, louder, fiercer. The rows and rows of the choir lined the platform that rose up from the jagged stone and glittered under the light of the bioluminescent moss that clung to the ceilings of the great city of Lolthine, and their song caused a shiver to run through Web’s body in a mixture of dread and awe. 

At the centre of the platform was an enormous carving of a great spider, far great than even the laws of the realm would allow. It was old. The mythos of the Lolthine stated that it had been carved by elves cast out from other realms, united in one thing. Their undying devotion to the Spider Queen, she who would guide or destroy as she saw fit. 

In front of the carved spider, stood the High Priestess. She wore flowing silks that caught in the collective breath of the crowd that had gathered. A headdress obscuring her features beyond mouth and jaw. But still, she was beautiful. Her skin so intensely blue it seemed to glisten like iridescent chitin. In her hand she held a crystal rod, dark magic brewing in its centre like a sentient creature, restless and eager for a means to escape. 

“My name is Deception of Shadows,” the High Priestess said, her voice echoing ominously in the cavern, “I am the High Priestess of the Great Spider Queen and have served proudly Her without question for our Generation.”

The crowd roared and cheered.

“I have lived by the laws of Loyalty and Devotion!” the High Priestess raised her fist triumphantly, “I have maintained the Sacred Code and I have guided many a soul to their eternal resting place! And I am _worthy_!”

The crowd roared and cheered, the choir reaching a fever pitch. Web kept his eyes on the High Priestess intensely, not knowing what to feel.

The High Priestess stood forward, and cast the crystal into the ground. It shattered and turned to dust on contact, and the dark magic was free to escape. It swirled around her like a lover’s touch, disappearing down her mouth, and the audience gasped in turn, overcome by the gravitas of the moment. She held out her hand and formed a sickle within it, a gift of the divine.

“My devoted souls,” the High Priestess said in a voice that was both familiar and not her own, “The time has come.”

And there was darkness. The kind of unnatural darkness that could only occur when She had chosen to veil ones eyes. The choir sang its ominous melody of awe and respectful terror, the band matching the heart of the crowd, beating rapidly, anxious and enraptured. 

When it lifted, the great spider came to life, crawling towards the High Priestess with predatorial patience. The High Priest took the sickle and held it to her throat, not wavering, not trembling, steady and calm. A shower of blood sprayed into the air and the High Priestess rose into the air, suspended by the grace of magic alone. And the great spider descended on her, spinning her in cocoon of divine thread, not stopping until every last part of her flesh was obscured, the cocoon a tear drop, glistening and still. 

And there was still, for a while. Web was not afraid, nor did he turn to face his father that stood behind proudly, or to his aunt that stood stoically by his side. He starred up at the platform, his chin held high, eyes fixed on the cocoon as though it were the only thing in the world. 

A line of priestesses encircled the cocoon, and the great spider slowly backed away, turning back to carved stone. A priestess, one dressed in silken robes of silvery thread, pleats pressed so severely she seemed almost architectural in form, approach the cocoon and carefully split the cocoon down the centre. The crowd drew its collective breath, and leaned in… ever so slightly in anticipation.

It was empty.

The priestess turned to face the crowd of elated drow, just waiting for her to give the signal. 

“The High Priestess Deception of Shadows is no more!” she yelled, “She has joined the Eternal Hoard, and will serve the Spider Queen until time itself ceases to exist!”

The crowd roared and Web breathed a sigh of relief. He allowed his body to relax and met his father’s eyes. For a moment they couldn’t look away, and Web noted the tears that sat within them. Web nodded to his father, for a moment patting his hand supportively, but turned too soon to find his friend, feeling as though he were going to burst. 

“Web!” Tower yelled, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him somewhat away from the people who looked at him with great reverence. 

“Tower!” Web yelled, grateful to go wherever Tower led.

“How do you feel?” Tower asked, seeming to glow with high spirits. 

Web paused for a moment, and nodded gruffly, “Proud!” Yes, he was _proud_ of his mother.

“Oh and to think!” Tower seemed to nearly dance around him, “One day that could be you! Mother and daughter serving the Spider Queen in the Eternal Hoard, side by side, forever and forever!”

“No,” Web replied, not loud enough to be heard above the crowd and feeling quite cold at the prospect, “I’m going to join the army like my aunt!” he decided, “Like—” oh but suddenly he felt hot, “— like you!”

Tower laughed brightly, “You? Don’t be silly! You’d never make it as a soldier,” he stopped laughing, perhaps realising his words could have been heard as hurtful, “I mean, you’re clearly made for grander things!”

Web wasn’t sure what he felt, but felt it to his core, “I’m too much like my father,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Don’t say that!” Tower insisted, “What would your mother say?”

Web scoffed to himself. His mother. She hadn’t even died with her own voice, even her face was hidden from view. The Spider Queen, great as she was, had no need of such things. His mother may have died, but it was only Deception of Shadows who had transcended mortality. If he met her lich again, he doubted she’d even know who he was. “You’re right,” Web dismissed, “We should celebrate! It has been a triumphant day!”


	2. A Seed of What's to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year since the last High Priestess was chosen by the Spider Queen but one more rite needs to take place before Lolthine, and Web, can move on.

Web’s aunt, Morrow, was not the woman his mother had been, but she was well considered a hero in her own right. She held the not insignificant title of lieutenant and held sizeable sway in the army of Lolthine. With Deception and Morrow, a heavy burden was placed upon Web to aspire to, and more importantly, to achieve greatness. The burden only worsened in the fact that his aunt had no surviving children to carry on her lineage. There was only Web.

It was for this reason Morrow and Web were the only possible options to perform the rite. They had both been bathed and prepared, scented in spices and tinctures that made them smell like the dead. The presiding mother led their way through the temple in silence. Clerics and the devout bowed at them as they passed, in reverence for the presiding mother, and the sister, and heir of the previous High Priestess and latest chosen of the Spider Queen.

The Temple of Lolth was not a cheerful place, it simply would not have been appropriate, but it was undeniably beautiful in its own way. In many ways it was the beating heart of Lolthine, and its denizens doted on it more than any other building. It had been carved into the stone, and polished until its surface gleamed like jewels. Grooves had been carved into the paths generations of pilgrims had worn with their steps.

Web considered the grooves thoughtfully as he made his way through the labyrinthine temple, thinking of his ancestors who guided his footing long after their death. A visual reminder of the tradition that took him to that very place for the reasons they had set into stone. His undyed robes covered his wrists and ankles, the blue of his feet striking as they kicked out the hem with every step, much as they would have done all those aeons ago.

The main walkway opened out into the central chamber of the Chosen, nine further chambers spreading out past narrow apertures in the wall. They entered the nearest, and continued into a smaller shrine devoted to the Cardinal Priest, the chosen of Hunger and Time. Web had called upon her frequently in his youth with his father. It was common during times of famine. She brought comfort, if nothing else, in dire hopeless times. The was a statue on the furthest wall, tall and carved in cold stone, that served as her representation in the mortal world. Her feet were soaked in the dried tears of a desperate people whose god chose to ignore all but the special few.

The Cardinal Priest had once been an elven priestess from a time before the drow had come to be. She was the first of the High Priests, freshly banished to their new realm. She had presided over all of those banished and established all the cities that scattered the Underdark like jewels in a crown. But the Underdark was never truly fit for habitation, not by elves and not in such numbers. Eventually famine hit, and the cities were forced to cut themselves off from one another for the inhabitants to survive. The Cardinal Priest starved to death in young Lolthine yet the Spider Queen had found her worthy, despite her end. Ever since her death, the line of High Priests that followed continued the tradition. Sacrificing themselves after ruling for the same amount of time as the Cardinal Priest.

The presiding mother took Morrow’s long white hair, and sectioned it into eight pieces. With her ceremonial dagger she severed exactly one piece, cropping it just at the shoulder. She lay the lock before the statue of the chosen, and did the same with Web’s hair. Together they gave their thanks to the Cardinal Priest, and Web’s mother, and reminded the chosen of their names. Morrow of Shadows, Web of Deception, sister and heir of the late High Priestess Deception of Shadows, chosen of the Spider Queen.

They continued onto the shrines of the Cunning Hand, chosen of Law and Deception, and continued the rite. She had been a humble scribe who rose to the rank of High Wizard with her wits and wisdom. She was a lawmaker and master of manipulation. The Spider Queen chose her after a full life of controlling the chaos that was Lolthine. It was a position well deserved, but Web had no aspirations to follow in her footsteps.

Following the Cunning Hand, the presiding mother led them to the shrine of the Prudent Mother, chosen of Crossroads and Sacrifice. She was the great great granddaughter of the Spider Queen, and in the war that eventually drove elves into their exile, was forced to choose between risking her husband and children to the wrath of her enemies, or joining the Spider Queen and her followers in the Underdark. She chose the Underdark in the hopes her immediate family would be spared. As the presiding mother continued the rite, Web looked up into the sorrowful face of her statue, and wondered if her bloodline continued or if her sacrifice had all been in vain.

The next of the chosen was the Bound Sun, sovereign over Insanity and Light. He was the son between the Spider Queen and the elven god of the Sun. Of all the chosen, he alone failed to gain his mother’s favour, but instead was bound as punishment for trying to betray her during the fall. Web remembered his father telling scary stories when he was young about the Bound Sun, who lost his mind in the darkness and whenever the realm shook or caverns fell in, that was him, thrashing to escape his prison. But the presiding mother placated him, and Web and Morrow left a lock of their hair, reminding him of who they were and their connections to the latest chosen.

The Vigilant Guardian, chosen of Life and Beauty, followed. She was the youngest of the chosen eight, and the markings on her face were exactly as they had been in her life. She had once been a humble teacher who lived only eight generations before his mother’s. The Spider Queen gave her favour after she died protecting her young students in the middle of battle, killing eighty enemy soldiers before she fell. Web had spent his youth imploring her to grant him the answers to his tests, she was seldom far from his thoughts.

The next shrine belonged to the Masked Shadow, the chosen of Masculinity and Patience. He was the son by the Spider Queen and the elven god of the moon, and much like his half-brother the Bound Sun, was never mortal. Web gazed up at the statue that towered above him, afraid the others could tell why he gripped the cuffs of his sleeves so tightly. He wished so dearly he could have what had been given to the Masked Shadow by birth. But for Web, he clung to one as he aspired to the other. When he said his name before the Masked Shadow, his voice wavered almost undetectably, positive everyone, including the chosen, would deem him unworthy.

The penultimate shrine was that of the Waiting Spider, chosen of War and Triumph, and favourite of Morrow. The Waiting Spider had been a mortal warrior who slew a dwarven god who sought to kill the Spider Queen. Web had taken to imploring her for the courage and skill it took to be admitted into the army of Lolthine as an acolyte. Her statue was covered in lovingly engraved battle scars which had presumably brandished her skin with pride in life. She looked a lot like Morrow, which was perhaps not that much of a coincidence at all.

The final was the Dead Lady, chosen of Death and Prophecy. She had once been a necromancer loyal to the Spider Queen for the duration of her life, and she performed an important role for the people of Lolthine, and the majority of the chosen. She was the caretaker of _all_ the undead legion, each one of them loyal to Spider Queen and no one else.

The shrine of the Dead Lady was unlike the others, which were smaller in size and more sparsely decorated. Instead it branched off into several corridors, each smelling of different stages of decay and preservation. When the folk of Lolthine died, the shrine was where they were taken to meet their invariable fates. In the main chamber, a great statue stood, a depiction of the Dead Lady as a lich, her skin taut across her bones. Web and Morrow gave their thanks to the necromantic Dead Lady, their final locks of hair leaving them with unevenly cropped locks that fell freely over their faces. And waited.

The presiding mother then escorted them further into the shrine, past rank corridors and shambling thralls, and into a side chamber Web knew for a fact connected to the most sacred part of the temple, the Halls of the Spider Queen. It looked much like an empty room with a pool of red water in the middle lit from below, casting streaks of magma-like veins on the wall and ceiling of the chamber. Waiting for them was the new High Priest. Web didn’t know her well, he never was very good with strangers, and one didn’t become familiar with the inner circle of Lolthine’s clerics, at least, not as a child. The presiding mother bowed to her, and then pushed Morrow and Web forward so their toes pressed against the edge of the pool.

“It has been done,” the presiding mother said, “Morrow of Shadows, and Web of Deception have completed all but the final part of the rite.”

The High Priestess nodded sombrely, and took the blade the presiding mother had used to cut their hair. “Bare witness then, Inscrutability of Fate,” the High Priest smiled magnanimously, almost smugly, “Seldom few have seen this rite performed.”

“I’ve known no greater honour,” the presiding mother Inscrutability replied.

“Dead Lady, Web of Deception and Morrow of Shadows have given their thanks to the chosen of the Spider Queen as demanded of them by way of blood,” the High Priestess said, her once white eyes overwhelmed with a striking red. She took the blade that had been used to cut their hair and slashed against Morrow’s face, leaving a bloody gash, “Sister!” the High Priest exclaimed, letting the blood drip from the blade into the pool, “Daughter!” she yelled, doing the same to Web. “Prove to us that Deception of Shadows is truly chosen, allow me, Mettle of Spite, to take up the mantle of High Priestess from now until death!”

The water in the pool began to bubble and boil, activated by the words and blood. A powerful smell filled the air so thickly that it made Web’s eyes water, and his tongue taste iron and spices from the surface, vile and laced in death. A figure rose from the pool, emaciated and fearless, dressed in the robes of the High Priest, long hair braided as though for battle, her red eyes devoid of life or thought. The presiding mother gasped and fell to her knees, followed by Morrow, and then eventually the High Priestess Mettle of Spite. But Web stared at the chosen, desperately searching for any sign she was the same person who helped raise her.

“You do not bow, child?” the chosen asked, her voice hoarse and divine.

“My name is Web,” Web replied, “You should know who I am.”

The chosen frowned, insomuch as a lich could do so, “I… do not remember.”

“I’m to be a soldier,” Web continued, almost positive he was performing an act of defiant sacrilege.

The chosen laughed in her dry and breathless voice, “Perhaps one day you will become a hero, and join me in the legion eternal.”

Web fell to his knees to hide the grief that washed over him, ashamed of how desperately he couldn’t bare the thought of sharing her fate, “Perhaps.”

“Assuming you prove worthy,” the chosen added.

“Chosen,” the High Priest Mettle said, “Do you acknowledge myself as the High Priestess of Lolthine, devotee of the Spider Queen?”

“I acknowledge,” the chosen replied.

“And do you acknowledge that your sister Morrow of Shadows, and daughter Web of Deception have done right by you in your ascension?”

The chosen paused a long while, as though she could remember them at all and was considering each one of their actions, “I acknowledge.”

“You’ve done us all proud, sister,” Morrow insisted with the gruff force of a soldier.

Web looked up at the chosen that had once been his mother, still searching in vain for signs the Spider Queen had not taken everything. The chosen looked down in cold curiosity on them all, deep down, she did not care, she was no longer part of the living. She descended down the pool once again, and the four of them sat on the ground looking at the place she had once been.

“Thank you Dead Lady,” the High Priestess exclaimed, “The line between life and death is irrelevant under your careful hands.”

Web wiped his cheek without thinking, smearing the sleeve of his undyed robes with blood. He stared at it, thinking how it was the last connection he had with his mother, and how his father would have wept to see her one last time. But of course, it had not been her, not really.

⁂

Web leapt into the air, daggers in each hand, and tried to tackle his foe to the ground. Tower ducked to the side, deftly tumbling into the standing position, sword at the ready. With an annoyed sigh, Web sheathed one of his blades and lunged for his friend, yelling in frustration. By chance he nearly clipped Tower’s shoulder, but he grabbed Web by the wrist and laughed.

“You’re too slow,” Tower goaded him, “Too short and too slow.”

Web pulled out his sheathed blade with his free hand and held it to his friend’s throat, “You can’t beat me with your ego,” he smirked.

“You can’t beat me at _all_ ,” Tower laughed, catching Web in the shin with his foot.

“I’ll get you one day!” Web insisted, trying to ignore how breathless he felt.

Tower laughed haughtily and twisted out of Web’s grip, “You barely made it into acolyte training,” he swung the sword in Web’s direction.

“But I _did_ make it!” Web parried the sword with his dagger, “You can’t deny it.”

“True,” Tower conceded, “But you can’t ride on the tresses of your mother and aunt forever.”

“That’s the idea!” Web lunged, throwing all his weight as he grabbed his friend’s hair with his free hand when they both hit the ground, “I don’t need anyone,” he said, smirking down at him as he yanked Tower’s head to the side, exposing his throat.

Tower grunted as he tried to pull away, “You need me,” he grinned wickedly.

Web let him go with a shove, standing to his feet and smoothing down his still freshly cropped hair. “Of course I don’t,” he chuckled nervously, “What good are you?”

Tower sat up and thought for a moment, “I’m the one who knows how to have fun,” he grinned in a way that cut through Web deeper than any weapon could.

Web exhaled unevenly, and fussed over the practice blade he had dropped in his enthusiasm. Desperately hoping Tower didn’t notice his self-conscious awkwardness or what it meant.

⁂

The forge was always hot, and crowded, full of members of the Artisans Guild shaping and repairing weapons and armour. Web’s father, Starlight, was a master armourer, and typically oversaw the manufacture of ornate helms and masterworks. Some of Web’s favourite childhood memories were of watching him fit armour to fancy paladins, warlords, and generals, in silent reverence. But finally, it was his turn to be fitted.

His father slipped the helm over Web’s already coifed head and firmly manipulated it into place, his tongue sticking out as he did so. The helm itself was unfinished, left unlacquered until he was satisfied it required no further adjustments.

“Does it fit now?” Web asked, turning his head this way and that.

“I don’t know,” his father replied critically, “You tell me.”

Web frowned, feeling like an ignorant child as he did so, “It feels… fine, I think?”

“Look up, as far as you can go,” his father said, “Is your neck impeded by the flange at all?”

The ceiling of the forge was covered in layers of soot and ash. “Only slightly,” Web admitted.

“Hmm,” his father looked at his handiwork critically, crossing his arms across his chest, “I think I can do better than that. What about the visor?”

“Oh that’s fine,” Web pulled on the coif underneath uncomfortably, “None of the other acolytes have gear fitted by a master armourer,” he added awkwardly.

Web’s father patted him on the shoulder, “You wouldn’t resent your own father for doting on his only daughter, would you?”

Web exhaled an unenthusiastic chuckle, “No, I suppose not.”

His father made some marks on the exposed metal, “How are you feeling, my little cobweb?” he asked in the soft tone of a father to a young child.

“What do you mean?” Web wondered, trying to ignore the apprentices and assistants in the room with them.

“You’ve been so busy with training and practice, I can’t remember the last time we just… talked,” his father admitted.

“Oh,” Web grunted.

“How are things with your friend Tower?” his father asked innocently.

“They’re fine,” Web frowned, “He’s stopped letting me beat him.”

“He’s a very… capable young man, isn’t he?” his father added, tapping meaningfully on the side of the helm for reasons Web knew were important but meant nothing to him.

“I guess so,” Web said.

“Are you sure you want to carry your friendship on into the ranks?” his father continued, “I think he’s a very nice young man, but well——”

“Why wouldn’t we still be friends?” Web snapped defensively.

“Well,” his father sat in front of him on the work bench, “He’s very nice, I like him a great deal as a person, but he doesn’t strike me as very… ambitious. I wouldn’t want you to be dragged down to his level.”

Web jumped to his feet, “How dare you! He’s my friend I love him like a - a - a,” he stammered horrified his tongue betrayed him in the heat of an argument.

“Yes, I know my little Cobweb,” his father sighed, “But surely you have to realise that…,” he paused, his expression unfathomable.

“Realise _what_ , father?” Web scowled bitterly.

“If you don’t already know, I am not the one whose place it is to tell you,” his father removed the helm carefully and handed it to one of his assistants.

“What are you saying father?” Web demanded, quickly growing impatient.

“I’m _trying_ to say I’m proud of you,” his father replied, “I just don’t want to lose my little Cobweb and be left all alone.”

The fire left Web as quickly as it had come, “You won’t be alone,” he said, hugging his father despite the audience, “No one’s alone when the Spider Queen watches over us.”

“Once you’re away, she’ll be all I have,” his father sighed.

Web chuckled, not knowing what else to do with the feelings that welled up in his chest, “It won’t be forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Web has a lot of feelings and he articulates _none_ of them.


	3. The Godless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Web and the rest of his scouting part are out of the city and looking for resources when things don't go as planned.

The scout party climbed over and between rocks and giant crystals, driven by a sense of duty to their people and the grumbling of their own stomachs. Web was lucky to make the party, chosen not for his skills but stature, the perfect size to squeeze into places a taller person would struggle. He couldn’t remember how long they had travelled, desperate for any signs of food at all. They were close to the surface, he was sure of it, something unfamiliar hung in the air and it put him on edge.

Web and his party were on a break, resting their aching bodies after contorting through a long and narrow passage way that had been carved by water aeons ago. They had come out to sharp drop, certain death laying beneath them in a bed of angry shards of crystals barely visible against the distance below. Web was determined not to show weakness to his fellow soldiers, drinking just the bare minimum of his water reserves, leaving the last of his rations for a moment of greater desperation. They sat in a row, each facing a different direction on the look out for enemies or creatures that could sneak up on them in their exhaustion. None of them spoke, too exhausted and cautious to want to make sound. Instead they sat, mediating in silence only broken by the random grumbling of bellies.

A subtle hint of sweetness and iron lingered in the air. One by one the party rose, edging towards the smell with hands inching by their blades. There was nothing to see, not yet, but there was promise and that was all they needed. They climbed up, picks into stone, and edged towards a gentle glowing light and smell of life.

It was Web who saw them first, a caravan of around twenty drow, dwarves, and miscellaneous beasts of burden from the surface hauling supplies down an ancient road, no doubt leading to their city. They were at rest, the drow guarding the dwarves as they slept.

The scout party had been sent to find mycelial colonies of wild blue stalks, dwarf’s ear, or perhaps even spider’s lace if they were very lucky. They would not account for much, but almost the entire army had been sent out to explore the Underdark in search of food. As each party returned the hunger would be, if not fully eradicated, prolonged until the soldiers could come back with more and more food.

The caravan was unprecedented good news. There was no telling how many mouths they could feed with its bounty, and there no question what they do next. But Web wasn’t sure, not of its certainty, but of his part in it.

“Do you know which city that road leads?” Web asked, his voice in a low whisper.

“The Godless City,” Crystal, his commander hissed, “They trade openly with the surface dwellers,” she spat in disgust.

To the best of Web’s knowledge, Lolthine had similar trade agreements, but that meant for nothing when she had nothing left to give.

“The one with the plumage is the diplomat, the ones to the side are the guards, and the rest are merchants and traders,” Crystal said, gesturing with her hand, “We don’t have the numbers to take anyone alive, but the only ones likely to cause us any trouble are the guards.”

“What about the beasts?” Spike wondered, “They have… hooves and things.”

Crystal exhaled, and turned to the only other man in the party. “Drum, how many darts do you have left?”

“Enough,” Drum grunted.

“Very well,” Crystal reached for her pick, “We move quickly, unseen, unheard. Drum dart the beasts of burden, no one kill them if you can get away with it.”

“Understood,” the scouts replied as one.

“While Drum takes care of the beasts, the rest of us will focus on the guards,” Crystal continued, “When they’re dead, we kill the rest. No mercy for the Godless. Not today, not when Lolthine starves.”

“Understood,” the scouts echoed.

“Mother guide our blades,” Crystal inhaled, nodding at the scouting party before they launched their attack.

They were silent as they descended down towards the unsuspecting caravan. Internally Web was a bundle of nerves, he had been on countless scouting missions before but none had featured the presence of other folk. He knew without doubt that failure was not an option, he had to prove he was worth the resources allowed to him as a solider of the great Spider Queen.

Drum was the first to attack, his darts gentle wafts of air as the scouts’s feet hit the ground. The Godless caravan didn’t notice Crystal, Web, and the others as they crept forward, at least, not at first. But then a beast fell, and then another. The guards rose in a single liquid movement, blades and spells already drawn.

The merchants and traders screamed and ran, but Web was focused. He launched himself towards the smallest guard, using his Goddess given powers to break her mind. Her mind was filled with terrors as Web drew his dagger with his spare hand and cut her throat from side to side like a sacrificial offering. As blood spray forth, he dodged an attack from behind and growled angrily at his dwarven assailant as she disappeared into nothingness, her mace narrowly missing Web three times before Crystal set her alight in flames.

The guards lay dead, with Spike among their number, but Web had no time to mourn his comrade at arms. The merchants and traders had turned to flee, but some had chosen to try their luck with the weapons seized from the fallen guards. Drum took out a plucky trader with ease, the smell of acid filling the air with putrid fumes as she choked, dropping the blade as she fell to her knees clawing at her sloughing skin.

Web recoiled, a moment of weakness and disgust, but out of the corner of his eye he spotted something or someone small escape upwards where the light grew stronger. Without thinking Web followed, all thoughts on his singular quarry about to escape. There was no telling if another caravan was on its way down the road, he couldn’t allow them the chance.

Darkness grew thin and the stone beneath his feet slippery. It was hard to stay upright as he stumbled forward, pushing the edges of breathlessness. The road continued, upwards and upwards, just steep enough to not trip up the beasts of burden as then descended into the Underdark. Web held out his hand in front of his face as he ascended upwards, the light already painful as it levelled out into unnatural flatness, a broad and stately tunnel into the unknown.

Web could hear desperate panting, but as the light had stolen his eyesight he had no idea who they were. Dagger at the ready he lashed out with his Goddess given powers, trying to break the escapee for just long enough for Web to locate them. A voice screamed, followed by horrified scuffling away from him.

“No - no, please don’t!” the voice exclaimed, their elven words high and young.

Web said nothing, drawn to the sound of the voice.

“Please! Spare me!” Web’s eyes adjusted just enough to see the dark green skin of the figure as they backed away into the unknown.

Web said nothing, daring to step foot outside the tunnel and onto the surface lands.

“A blight took our stores! My people are starving!” the young drow sobbed desperately. Web could just about make out the unfamiliar tattoos that covered half her face, “I promised my father I’d return alive!”

“Are there more caravans coming?” Web asked.

“Yes! Three more are due, but it will four rest cycles until they will reach the gateway!” the Godless girl breathed violently in her terror, clinging to foolish hope that Web would spare her out of mercy.

“What are they carrying?” Web held his blade against the girl, both wincing in the malevolent light.

“Dried meats, grain, preserved vegetables, even living beasts known as ‘goats’ and ‘chickens’ and all such things!” the girl was shaking, “I ate this substance they called ‘cheese.’ It made me sick so we decided against it, but I can’t believe they made fungus out of milk!”

Web frowned, several questions threatening to cause him to lose sight of what he was doing, “Are you finished?”

“W-what?” the girl asked.

“Your face,” Web snapped, “Are you an adult?”

“Why would you ask that?” the girl’s eyes widened despite the oppressive light of the sun.

“I can’t read your face, Godless,” Web grunted, “Not in this light.”

The girl was silent as though weighing her options, “Let me go,” she cried, “Let my people eat.”

“You’re complete,” Web concluded, “So you should understand.”

“Understand what?” the young woman tried to back away.

“The Godless city starves, Lolthine starves. While the Godless _beg_ ,” Web spat the word in disgust, “Lolthine’s children take.”

Web didn’t give the Godless woman a chance to reply. He had what he came for and there was no mercy for the Godless, not when Lolthine starved. He cut her where she stood and watched her body fall on strange soils bleached by light.

If more caravans were due in their time, he didn’t want her body to act as warning to the others before Lolthine’s scouts had a chance to mobilise. He dragged her body some distance away and sat her up against a rock. He took a moment to examine her markings, despite being Godless she had been a fellow drow after all, and noted the black ink that covered half her face in spiral formations that marked all that she was, all that she had been. Despite being Godless, he said a prayer in Lolth’s name for his fellow drow, and burnt all that she was away.

Web looked up at the landscape around him, taking it in for the first time. It was dry and every plant looked bleached by the sun. Even the air itself felt dry like it was sucking the moisture out of his skin, and his head ached as he tried to figure out how the horizon twisted and shimmered in the heat.

“Web,” Crystal said from behind him, “Have you ever been on the surface before?”

“Never,” Web replied, nearly stumbling as he turned to face her.

She gestured at the body of the Godless woman as it lay smouldering in the sun, clouds of choking smoke rising upwards like a stroke of ink. She took out her canteen of water and dosed the body, covering her face with her spare hand, “Did you do this?”

Web nodded, “I questioned her. Three more caravans are due at this gateway in four rest cycles. They are carrying dried meats, grain, preserved vegetables, and living beasts.”

“We need to cover our tracks,” Crystal grabbed Web’s hand and dragged him towards the gateway, “I’ve already sent a message to the other scouts, but if we can mobilise an army to take this divine gift by force, maybe this will be enough to see us through.”

“The Godless City has been struck by another blight,” Web continued, “Its people are starving.”

“They’ll be weak,” Crystal said, resting for a moment as they finally entered the shelter the gateway provided.

“They’ll be desperate,” Web added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first murder


	4. The Transience of Completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Web has something he's needs to do before he can be complete.

Web had not been back in Lolthine long, he had spent countless missions away from the city only to spend one or two rest cycles in the barracks before having to leave all over again. Every single break he’d tell himself he’d find the time to do it on his next visit, but he never did, and he was beginning to annoy himself with his regret. He wandered the streets in the heart of the city, still dressed in the matte black uniform that labelled him as a ground soldier of the third tier. His fellow drow nodded at him with respectful regard, in recognition of his oath if not his face itself, as they crossed paths in the heart of the city.

He kept his eyes fixed on the signs above the shop fronts, looking for a particular name. Web seldom got time to spend with Tower on a mission, either stationed separately or too busy to really enjoy the other’s companionship. But he had been sitting with Tower on the surface around a camp-site at night, and one of Tower’s other friends recommended a specific tattooist after she had decided to extend her facial tattoos down her body for aesthetic reasons. 

The sign read ‘Vigilant Impressions — Tattooist, Calligrapher, Scribe — Registered Member of the Artisans Guild and Honorary Member of the Circle of Wizards,’ written in beautiful lush ink that glimmered iridescently in the soft light of the city. The shop itself seemed shockingly small and was wedged between an equally unassuming beautician’s and matchmaker’s.

Web took a deep breath and entered the shop, not really knowing what to expect. Somehow the shop managed to look smaller on the inside, barely a room with some cushions on the floor and door with an unambiguous ‘No Unauthorised Entry’ painted directly onto its surface with the same beautiful script as the sign outside. A middle aged drow sat languorously in the centre of the room smoking a mysterious substance out of a long narrow pipe. She turned to face Web, a calculated but benign smile on her face. 

“Welcome to Vigilant Impressions, my name is Thorn of Perpetuity,” Thorn said smoothly, “What brings you to my establishment?”

“I - I - I was recommended,” Web swallowed. She wasn’t the first double-faced drow had ever seen, not by any means, but there was something magnetic about her specifically. She seemed so permanent in her completion she looked to Web as though she were a god amongst mortals.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Thorn replied, “Did you want something written, or inscribed?”

“I want to be complete,” Web replied quietly.

Thorn’s expression softened with compassionate understanding, “Do you have something in mind?”

Web nodded and pulled out a scrap piece of paper he had hidden in his breastplate, “I am open to small changes, but I put a lot of thought into this and… yes, this is what I want.”

Thorn put her pipe aside and examined the paper with reverence, “I can work with this. When did yo——”

“Immediately,” Web replied, “I’m a ground soldier, if I don’t do this now who knows when I’ll get another chance.”

Thorn nodded, “That’s understandable. If you’d care to follow me somewhere more private… uh… what did you say your name was again?”

“Web,” Web replied, feeling more than a little self-conscious, “Web of Starlight.”

“Web of Starlight, wonderful, such a beautiful name,” Thorn made a point of putting a sign out on her front door that said ‘Call back later,’ and locked it. “It’s just me here,” she explained, holding the door labelled ‘No Unauthorised Entry’ open expectantly. 

The second room was larger, and the walls and ceiling were covered in a sea of faces brandishing a cornucopia of various designs and symbols. Thorn went to the side counter and filled two cups with whatever was in her earthenware pitcher. Web took the cup and settle on large cushion on the floor while Thorn took out a great book and sat across from him.

Web took a sip from the cup cautiously and frowned, trying to recall the flavour. It was warm and familiar, like wraith’s fingers but less sweet on the palate. “What infusion is this?” Web asked, perhaps outing himself as uncultured as he felt.

“Do you like it?” Thorn smiled, “It’s from a stick found on the surface, ground into powder and brewed with distilled water. The surface folk use it calm the nerves, and promote good health.”

“That sounds expensive,” Web considered the brown liquid in the cup with a considerable amount of guilt.

“Oh it was I imagine,” Thorn replied matter-of-factly, thumbing through her book, “But it was given to me as a gift, I don’t know if I like it yet but it’s growing on me.”

Web decided it was probably rude to ask who had given her medicinal sticks as a gift and why. “It reminds me of wraith’s fingers,” Web said thoughtfully, “I used to like them a lot when I was little.”

“You have a sweet tooth, I assume,” Thorn replied.

“Not really—” Web admitted, “— but my mother liked them and if I was good she used to share them with me.”

Thorn gave Web an adoring smile, “Oh a sweet heart instead,” she finished her drink in a single extended gulp, and returned back to her counter. “My mother was a field director, a long time ago. She died on the surface, you know?” Thorn chuckled to herself as she poured some mysterious ingredients into a large mortar and pestle, “We ground her bones… oh, ha! Not in this, no we used a special mortar, but we ground her bones and released her soul into this very building,” she looked up wistfully into the ceiling, “It belonged to my father and it brought him comfort to have her here. But if I’m honest with you, we’ve probably bored her to metaphorical tears. She was a soldier through and through.”

Web didn’t know what to add, thinking he probably owed the older drow a great deal more respect than he knew how to give in a such a specific setting.

“I need your hair,” Thorn said, taking a small snippet and adding it to the mixture. It began to smoke for a moment before it dulled to opaque grey. “Tell me about what the army is doing these days, I’m sure she’d like that,” Thorn continued happily to herself, “I know you can’t tell me much but you have to have fun little stories about yourself or your friends.”

Web thought about it carefully, “I’m friends with Tower, we’ve been friends since we were little. The first time he was on the surface it rained. There was thunder and he genuinely thought it was the Bound Sun trying to escape,” he chuckled, “We’ve never let him live it down.”

“Oh indeed?” Thorn exclaimed, “It must be so strange up there, like another world really.”

“It is,” Web spun the remainder of his drink in his cup, the power drifting at the bottom until it collected into a shape that look uncannily like a spider under a crescent moon in the centre, “Everything’s dangerous up there.”

“So I’ve heard,” Thorn replied, taking out a box full of delicate tools, “I’m nearly ready to start, I’m sorry to say this but I’m going to need you to undress.”

Web stood up and gripped the side strap of his breastplate nervously, “How… undressed?”

Thorn gave him a compassionate smile, “Just the armour. I need to get at your skin and you need to be comfortable because the spell takes a while.”

Web nodded wordlessly, and removed his rerebraces, vambraces, spaulders, breastplate, and gambeson, and sat back on the cushion still dressed in his shift. He thought for a moment while Thorn set out her accoutrement around him, and pulled the neck of his shift down around his shoulders. 

She frowned at Web’s face critically as she mentally mapped out her lines, her eyes darting down to the sketches Web had given her as a reference. Eventually she began painting the mixture onto his skin, carefully, silently. It felt cool on his skin. He thought back to the time he had endured his last sitting, not long before his mother dedicated herself to the Spider Queen. She had helped him chose the design, and even though he knew it had to be done, it stung to chance the last thing she had done for him as a mother.

“I made some changes to the cheekbones,” Thorn said softly, “You don’t have stick with them but I think they’ll suit you better than what you have in your notes.”

“I trust you,” Web replied.

Thorn pulled away so he could fully appreciate the clever smirk that spread across her face, “A misguided sentiment,” she said, “Although I’m honoured.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Web asked.

“Longer than you’ve been alive I expect,” Thorn admitted, “I make no claims to youth.”

“Then I trust you,” Web concluded.

“I only hope I don’t betray that trust,” Thorn made a gesture with her hand, “Chin up, it’s time for your throat.”

Web did as he was told, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as she added the relatively simple additions. He thought about Thorn’s mother, considering her to be much the same manner of person as his aunt.

“What was your mother again?” Web asked, “Her rank, I mean.”

Thorn paused for a moment, holding his chin firmly in her other hand, “Field director,” she replied, “Not much higher than yourself really, but she loved what she did and resented anyone above lieutenant, so she was happy.”

Web smiled, “Oh so she was smart.”

“Some might say so—” Thorn admitted, “— but to me she was just my mother. I was still a kid when she died, saved herself the disappointment of having a scribe as a daughter, I suppose.”

“Your mother was soldier,” Web explained, “No soldier takes what you do for granted, not this… I don’t.”

“You’re very kind,” Thorn dismissed awkwardly, “If only everyone was as grateful.” 

She continued in silence, painting the final additions to Web’s throat. Apparently satisfied she held out an old mirror of polished bronze. Web took it and examined the design she had applied. It was slightly different than he had sketched out, but he was no artist, and in his opinion it seemed more flattering than he could have imagined. The paste on his skin was grey and sticky, but there was a glimmer of something he had seen in himself for a long while.

Web nodded in approval, “Yes, go ahead. I like this.” He placed the mirror down with careful reverence.

Thorn positively beamed and drew her hands up, palms out, arcane energies welling in the space between. She began to chant, voice changed, and the paste on Web’s skin began to burn like hot oil. He closed his eyes tight, concentrating on maintaining his composure, his breath an anchor that pulled him forward until the moment of completion. 

It felt different than the other times, less of a shock than when was a young child, and felt the burn of drow branding for the first time. Less heavy than when he had been marked as an adult under the guidance of his mother. If anything even the pain felt freeing, a last moment of catharsis before he was finally, undeniably him. 

Thorn continued until she was hoarse, the arcane forces in her voice stronger than anything recognisably her, insomuch as Web knew her at all. But at long last she let her hands slump to her side, she grew quiet, and the arcane energy faded away.

“Are you done?” Web asked, paranoid the rite had gone wrong.

Thorn smiled proudly in her exhaustion and held out the mirror, letting Web examine himself for a long moment. It was strange to see himself reflected back, shamelessly and earnest. He touched his throat, delicately tracing the line up his cheek and over his forehead, not quite believing he didn’t have to bite his tongue any more. 

“Are you sure this is what you wanted?” Thorn asked, her voice low and strained.  
Web nodded slowly before he came to his senses, “We never discussed cost,” he said, suddenly quite alarmed.

Thorn gave him a curious look, “Corrections are free,” she replied nonplussed.

“Thank you,” Web exhaled, “I mean it.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, really,” Thorn dismissed, “How do you think your mother will react?”

Web looked at his hands mournfully, “I don’t think she’d notice,” he admitted, “The chosen aren’t known for caring about the intricacies of mortal life.”

“Chosen?” Thorn wondered, “Who was your… oh… your mother was Deception of Shadows,” she breathed, slight horror on her face.

“Yes,” Web replied softly, “It was an honour to perform the final rite in her name, even if it was a role that didn’t belong to me.”

“Forgive me,” Thorn said as she took his hands tenderly in her own, “I had no idea Deception’s child was… like me. I just assumed that… you had joined the Circle of Clerics.”

Web kept her eyes on their hands, her skin was so green it made his own look the bluest of blues. “The Circle of Clerics is for women,” he admitted in a whisper, “At least the army of Lolthine is open to anyone.”

“Ah,” Thorn nodded understandingly, “That’s why I’m a member of the Circle of Wizards.”

⁂

Fresh faced, Web made his way to his childhood home. The streets were familiar and it was strange how deeply he missed them whenever he left Lolthine, no matter how small or insignificant the detail. He felt a little bit self conscious as he walked past people, knowing they probably recognised him as his steps brought him closer to home. 

The building was empty, his father not yet home, and Web quietly removed his armour and changed into one of his father’s old tunics that had worn thin and soft. The fabric had faded to a delicate approximation of yellow topaz in its long lifetime, but blotchily in a way that made it inappropriate to be worn in public. 

Barefoot, he padded his way to the kitchen and started a fire in the hearth, stoking it while he mused what he was going to cook. He rummaged through the pantry and was pleased to find a large jar full of limestone eel preserved in oil, a basket of glass cake, goblin ears, false drakefire, and other assorted mushrooms, various pickled vegetables, a container of salt, and a larger amphora containing rice.

He washed the rice, checking it carefully to ensure quality, and put it to boil, placing so it hung over the fire while he turned his attention to the rest of the meal. He diced the goblin ears, sprinkled them with a little salt, and put a pan over the fire in the hearth. With a large spoon, Web scooped the eel out onto the pan, careful to include enough oil he could fry the fish without it sticking. 

It was then his father returned home. He stood at the kitchen entrance, his arm on the wall, watching Web with a complicated expression on his face. Resolving to ignore it, Web continued cooking, feeling as though the eyes of the entire city were focused on him.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Web’s father said.

“My schedule is subject to change,” Web explained, adding the goblin’s ears to the pan.

“Sit down,” his father insisted, “I’m your father, I should be the one cooking.” 

“I’m not helpless,” Web scoffed, “Let me cook for you.”

His father sat down by the hearth, technically in the way, but interested in what Web was doing. “It smells good,” he insisted.

Web checked the rice. It was pitted on the surface and most of the water had cooked away. “It’s nearly finished,” Web replied, added the pickled vegetables to the pan.

Perhaps feeling useless, Web’s father took out a couple bowls and placed them on the low table in the kitchen. He filled two glasses with ale and watched quietly as Web took the bowls, and plopped a serving of rice into each, topping both with the eel, mushroom, and pickled vegetables, drizzling the oil from the pan over it all like a garnish. He placed the bowls back on the low table and sat across from his father, secretly feeling as though he was participating in, and hopefully passing, a test. His father took a bite of the eel. He made a slightly surprised noise of approval. Web had not failed his forefathers.

“This is nice,” his father said, “I had no idea you could cook so well. Did they teach you this as part of your acolyte training?”

Web nodded, singling out a lone red vegetable and putting it in his mouth. “I like cooking,” Web replied while chewing, “It reminds me of when I was little and I used to watch you making something out of nothing.”

“Time is a funny thing,” his father sighed wistfully. “How is Tower? Is he doing well?”  
Web shrugged, “As well as he always does.”

“Does he know about…?” his father snorted at himself, “No, what am I saying, of course he knows.”

“I’ve cooked for him tonnes of times,” Web replied.

“Of course,” his father chuckled. He continued eating for a while in silence, looking at Web carefully when he thought he wasn’t watching. “It looks good on you—” he added, smiling apologetically, “— the tunic. You make it look like fashion.”

Web looked down at the tunic in confusion, “I didn’t want to ruin anything nice,” he replied, “I’ll change later when I have to return to the barracks.”

“When will that be?” his father asked, looking more desperate than he perhaps would have liked.

“I mean to rest here, after we’ve eaten,” Web explained, “I wasn’t going to eat and run, even though I don’t have much time to spare.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” his father sighed, not unappreciatively.

They finished their meal making small talk over nothing much at all, neither mentioning the obvious. Web was proud of himself, and smirked in quiet satisfaction. He gulped down the remainder of his ale and wiped his hands clean while his father stacked the bowls to be dealt with later. 

Web was about to leave the kitchen entirely when his father stepped in front of him and awkwardly cupped his hand around Web’s cheek. Web tried to move but made eye contact with his father and froze on the spot, suddenly feeling very small and young.

“I had no idea,” his father admitted gently, “I would have liked to have been there when it happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Web replied, touching the hand that still held his face.

“I should have known,” his father continued, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Web said softly, “There never seemed to be a good time.”

“When did you realise?” his father asked.

Web didn’t know how to respond, what answer could even be considered the truth, “A long time ago.”

“You went through the rite with Morrow,” his father said, his expression struck with dread.

“Yes I did,” Web admitted, “It may not have been my rite, but I don’t regret it. She was my mother, even if I’m not qualified for… clerical duties.”

His father hugged him tightly, squeezing him in the way only a master armourer could. “I’m not blaming you,” he said, “Thank you for the meal, it was a wonderful surprise.”

“Please, it was the least I could do,” Web dismissed, “I’d feel terrible if I made you cook after a long shift serving the soldiers of Lolthine.”

“You’re a good kid, Cobweb,” his father said, releasing him from his vice-like grip.

“I’m a ground soldier in Lolthine’s army,” Web scoffed.

His father grunted, “Neither of these things are mutually exclusive,” he said, turning to leave, “As much as I love your company, I’ve been desperately needing to meditate for some time now.”

Web followed him wordlessly into the living room. It was as humble as all the rooms in the building, and he had seldom known it any different. Even with his mother as High Priest of the city there was not enough wealth to meaningfully make a difference to their day to day lives. It as much as it ever did. Murals painted onto the walls with pretty patterns, fables, and portraits. Cushions in the corners to serve as their only means of comfort. There was an old box that contained scrolls of tales and prayers, another that contained clothes, and another still that contained Web’s childhood belongings, waiting in vain to be past on to the next generation. 

He sat down on the cushion in the far side of the room, the one that was a deep muted green, and tucked his legs under himself. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, ignoring his father as he sat behind him, pressing his back against his own. Their heads touched and Web leant back slightly, letting his head rest on his father’s shoulder. A long moment passed in stillness, serenity, accompanied only by the soft sounds of breathing and digestion.

“I would not have let you join the army had I known,” Web’s father said matter-of-factly.

Web sat up straighter and took in a deeply exhausted gulp of air, “That would have made me very sad.”

“I could have taken you as an apprentice,” his father mused wistfully.

“I never wanted to be an armourer,” Web insisted.

“No, you just wanted to follow Tower to your deaths,” his father added bitterly, “I’m sorry… I - I need to let you go, don’t I?”

“Don’t be silly,” Web scoffed, “My name is Web of Starlight, I take you wherever I go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Web can a lil gender euphoria, as a treat.

**Author's Note:**

> Fucked up beginnings for a fucked up little man.


End file.
